


Extraordinary

by dilemmaed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Banter, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Good Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Era, Hogwarts Fourth Year, Kissing, POV Hermione Granger, Yule Ball (Harry Potter), dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:00:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25415806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilemmaed/pseuds/dilemmaed
Summary: In her softest voice, Hermione said, “what the hell is that supposed to mean?”Malfoy’s head snapped up to look at her, his cheeks tinted the slightest shade of pink against his porcelain hue. He retracted his hand from where it had lain on her dress, fisting it in his lap, as if he were trying to capture the feeling of the fabric against his skin.Hermione’s heart felt heavy in her chest, even heavier than it had been when she’d first sunk into the alcove. She was disgusted at herself, at her lack of disgust for the boy sitting next to her. His hair, which had earlier been styled so carefully like the prat he was, was now hanging in his eyes, the fringe tickling her cheek. She fought off a shudder at the feeling.“It means that,” he whispered, so quietly that, if not for their proximity, she might not have caught his next words, “for tonight, Granger, I think you are extraordinary.”
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 44
Kudos: 233





	Extraordinary

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!
> 
> This is my first Dramione fic in... a long time! I apologize for that! I actually AM working on the next chapter of To The Fallen I just need to finish it!
> 
> I had such an urge to write about these two again, and I'd never done so from their Hogwarts years, especially not this early on!
> 
> This is basically a one shot AU of 'what if Draco found Hermione crying after the Yule Ball?'
> 
> It ended up a lot longer than I'd first intended, but I'm really happy with how it turned out!
> 
> Hope you enjoy the story:)

“Granger,” a voice called from behind her, echoing in the empty alcove.

Hermione tensed up at the sound. It took her a moment to place it; the voice was familiar, though it sounded different without the jeering tone that usually accompanied it. She didn’t have the energy or the patience to deal with him right now. She felt drained enough from her fight with Ron without having any more confrontations tonight. 

Instead of replying, she buried her face further into her hands, drawing her knees up to her chest, as if she might be able to sink into the wall and simply disappear. Perhaps if she stayed quiet, or still enough, he might just go away. She knew she wasn’t lucky enough for that.

“Granger,” he repeated, firmer this time, “you deaf or something?”

She sniffed, sliding her palm down her face in an attempt to hide any tears that might have fallen, though her face was damp enough to suggest that it probably wasn’t possible. “Go away, Malfoy,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Hermione listened for the telltale sound of footfall, but the absence of it made the pit in her gut fill with dread.

“Oh, come on now, Granger,” Malfoy’s voice sounded closer now, his smirk written into his tone, “don’t be a spoilsport.” 

Dropping her hand from her face finally, Hermione looked up to see Malfoy standing almost directly over her. His lean figure, still dressed in the dark colours of his dress robes, loomed over her like a cruel, yet beautiful spectre. She could see the silver of his irises glowing in the low torch light, glittering with some sort of interest. He wasn’t sneering, though his mouth was set into a line; his arms crossed over his chest.

Perhaps, she should have pulled her wand out, should have threatened him, but she found she didn’t have the energy and, as angry as she was, she didn’t want to get in even more trouble when Malfoy inevitably told on her for being out of her dorm after curfew.

“Please, Malfoy,” she pleaded with him, her throat thick with tears both shed and yet to as she spoke, “not tonight.”

She glanced down at her knees, at the now-wrinkled periwinkle ruffles of her dress. She had felt beautiful when she walked out the door tonight. For the first time in her life, she had felt confident in the way she looked. She hadn’t just felt beautiful, but rather, sure of herself. For once, she felt as if she could be a normal girl, going to a ball with a boy. Now, all she wanted to do was hide, to rip her dress to shreds and maybe punch Ron in the face.

The shadow of Malfoy’s body over her’s shifted at once, and for a moment, she thought she had won, but then she heard the echo of his weight dropping to the floor.

She raised her gaze to look over at him. He was seated across from her in the small alcove, one knee to his chest, the other out in front of him. He looked at her languidly, an intensity in his stare she’d never seen in his eyes before. There wasn’t hatred laced within them, but rather a strange sort of intrigue that left her both uneasy and reluctant to look away. 

She would have had to have been either blind or daft not to notice how beautiful Malfoy was. He was all pale shadows and elegant, yet hard, angles, a statue cut away from marble, like one of many she’d seen photographs of, the ones she wished to study up close one day. His features were aristocratic, as if every part of him was carefully sculpted, from the arch of his brow to the slope of his throat. Hermione wished she could have said she didn’t notice, that his cruelty outweighed his beauty, but she couldn’t. There was something about him that simply struck her, despite everything, and she hated herself for even letting herself think such a thing.

Hermione sighed and wiped away a tear from the corner of her eyes, willing herself to shut them and take a breath. They burned behind her lids, an echo of the pain she felt, radiating throughout her body. It was petty to be this upset, she knew, but she couldn’t help but be angry. With Ron, with the situation. She wanted to cry, had come here, to a secluded place, to do just that, but she wouldn’t let herself show that sort of weakness to a git like Malfoy, someone who could and  _ would _ use it against her. 

They were silent for a long while, time spent by picking at the periwinkle fabric of her dress, rubbing away at the softness of the silk. There was a sort of oddness to their silence and what baffled Hermione more than anything was the fact that it wasn’t exactly a  _ bad _ sort of oddness. 

It was a long while before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was laced with the attitude she was accustomed to, “You do know that Weasley’s a dick, don’t you?”

“Don’t–,” she started, her voice louder than it had been before.

“He is,” Malfoy stated simply, “don’t deny it. He’s a right prick, and a jealous one at that.”

“You heard our row?” Hermione asked, her voice small, hoping to divert his attention. She could feel her cheeks heat up, and she hoped that, perhaps, the low lighting was doing enough to shadow her embarrassment.

“Everyone from here to the bloody astronomy tower heard it, Granger, don’t kid yourself,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes.

Hermione’s head fell back against the stone wall as she let out a groan, “Bollocks,” she whispered.

“Ooh,” Malfoy mocked, eyebrows raised high on his forehead, “so the Golden Girl has a silver tongue?” She watched his smirk through bleary eyes, “Isn’t swearing against Gryffindor’s policy? We wouldn’t want–”

“What do you want, Malfoy,” she stated plainly, a demand. She wasn’t in the mood for his games tonight, wasn’t sure how much of his taunting she could handle before she snapped. 

A long pause. Then he said, “I’m not quite sure myself.”

And in that moment, all of the arrogance he usually wrapped around himself seemed to fall away and the boy that lay underneath both seemed and felt unrecognizable. It was only a flicker, but all the same it was a moment that contradicted all she’d seen of Malfoy in the four years she’d known him. It confused her as much as it intrigued her and it was gone before she had a chance to study it further. 

“Don’t you have better things to do than sitting here with me in the middle of the night? Hexing first years and the like,” she said, the remnants of tears clouding her vision as she searched for any sign of cracks in his persona.

“Probably,” he answered honestly, hugging his knee tighter to his chest, resting his chin against it lazily.

She only looked at him expectantly.

“Stop staring at me,” he said, his eyes trained on the wall beside her head. “And stop looking so goddamn pathetic; it's embarrassing, Granger.”

“What’s it to you?” she asked, straightening to level her stare. She couldn’t fathom why, exactly, he was here. Certainly not to comfort her, she knew. They’d barely said a civil word to each other in the time he’d known her.

“It’s not,” he said, without hesitating, “just…don’t give him the satisfaction of letting him see you like this. His head’s big enough without all this.” 

Hermione snorted, “And yours isn’t big?”

Malfoy only shrugged, “Big it may be, but  _ I _ don’t have a jealousy complex as big as Scotland. Unless you’re shagging him, he’s got no right to be jealous over anything, least of all a  _ dance _ . But you’re not shagging him,  _ are _ you, Granger?”

“Not that it's any of your business–”

She was interrupted by Malfoy’s snort, “That’s a no.”

After taking a moment to press the heels of her hands into her eye sockets hard enough to see spots, Hermione shook her head, “Why do you care, Malfoy?” she asked, an edge to her voice. “I’m a  _ mudblood _ ,” she spat, “shouldn’t you be celebrating my misery or something?”

Malfoy shrugged, the movement odd in his crumpled position, but somehow still graceful. “Be that as it may,” he replied, his voice as sickly and smooth as honey, “someone as allegedly clever as you should know better than to let a thick-headed arse like Weasley get into your head.” Malfoy’s usual drawl had returned to his voice as he spoke, as if she were the one burdening him about her fight with Ron, rather than the other way around.

“Did he even tell you that you looked beautiful tonight?” Malfoy asked, “Did that fool, Krum?”

_ No _ , she thought,  _ they didn’t _ .

She had watched Viktor drink her in like a beverage to be consumed, had been put off by it, but had ignored it in favor of her newfound confidence in her appearance. It was the same expression he used when he watched her in the library, but amplified tenfold. 

Ron, on the other hand, had turned beet red, had immediately been angry at her because she had the audacity to say yes when asked to a dance. Not once had he smiled at her, complimented her. 

Malfoy was right, and it physically pained her to admit it, even in the safety of her own mind. She felt as if she had been gut-punched all over again.

At Hermione’s lack of response and obvious flush, Malfoy only answered, “Hm.” The sound, though short and wordless, was enough of a punctuation, an affirmation that he knew he was right about her, about them. It made her tongue feel heavy in her mouth, impossible to respond. 

Hermione chewed on her lip, a nervous habit she’d had since she was young, staring down at her feet. She was replaying the argument in her head again; Ron’s cruel words, the way he’d shouted at her, the way they had cut right through her, leaving her hollow. She could feel the anger, the frustration building in her again, fighting against the powerlessness she felt. 

She didn’t say anything for a long while, and to her surprise, Malfoy didn’t goad her to. And when she did finally speak, she didn’t know why she said it, didn’t know how she allowed it to slip from her lips, especially in front of someone like him, but she needed someone to hear, to understand an inkling of the frustration she was feeling.

“Merlin,” she mumbled, her voice low in the hopes that no one, save Malfoy, would hear her, “Ron is such an arsehole.”

“My, my, Granger,” Malfoy said, a smirk playing at his lips once more, “now, was that so difficult?”

Hermione let out a noise of protest, feeling her face redden further as he spoke. She wanted to argue with him, to defend her friend, but the words had been hers, not his, and she couldn’t take them back now. She didn’t hate Ron–no, he was one of her closest friends. But the way he’d acted tonight had been uncalled for, had made her angry enough to consider slapping him harder than she’d done Malfoy last year. 

She wasn’t his, in any sense of the word, and she wasn’t sure if she even wanted such a thing from him at all. All she had wanted was to be able to go to the ball, to have a dance with a boy, to have a good time, to make friends. She wasn’t even interested in Viktor in the way that Ron was convinced she was; she had told him herself, but he didn’t believe her. Because of course, Ron being Ron, had jumped to conclusions and it was  _ her _ who had gotten clobbered in the end. It always was. The one time she had done something for herself, it had backfired–had been ruined by someone who thought he could control her life.

“Glad it took you four years to see what everyone else has seen since the moment he walked onto the Hogwarts Express,” Malfoy jibed, “and you’re supposed to be the brilliant one.”

“Ron’s my friend,” she said, matching his stare with one of her own, his silver eyes glimmering.

“He’s an idiot,” Malfoy remarked absently. 

Despite her frown, guiltily, she snorted at that. 

“If you insist on staying here, Malfoy,” Hermione said, “can we talk about something else? I can’t–,” she paused, “I can’t think about it anymore.”

“Ah yes,” he said, “let me just pull out my book titled,  _ Things To Talk About With Granger _ . Truly riveting and alarming quick read, if I say so myself.”

“Why do you insist on being a prick all the time?” she asked, rolling her eyes.

“Why do you insist on being a raging swot all the time?” he countered.

“Touch é ,” she mumbled, throwing him a glare.

She let herself consider the lack of ice in his voice, the way that the words that rolled off his tongue were dripping sweetly, enticing and terrifying. For that moment, Hermione let herself acknowledge the chill it brought to her spine, the warmth to her cheeks, to an unfamiliar place inside her, unnerving her. It was more than she’d felt for Krum, for Ron, and it scared her, especially given that this was, perhaps, the first time in her life she’d had a private conversation with Malfoy. 

She closed her eyes against the image of him, expression blown open, the boy who resided beneath the hollow, callous exterior. She couldn’t push it away this time. She should hate this boy; he’d thrown slurs at her, had embarrassed and made fun of her, had been vile to her friends, and yet–

And yet.

She couldn’t seem to reconcile the idea that Malfoy was a wholly  _ bad _ person. Maybe it was her optimistic nature, the way her mother had always taught her that you couldn’t judge a person unless you knew and had lived their life. She couldn’t hate Malfoy. He was a bully and an arsehole, but he was a child, just as she was. Like her, he was the product of the environment he was raised in.

“You hate me, Malfoy,” she breathed, not a question. 

The words barely left her mouth, the heat of her breath hanging in the empty alcove, as real as a tangible being, as either one of them. It took her a moment to even realize that she’d said them aloud at all.

A moment later, she heard him get up, heard his footsteps and thought that perhaps he was leaving, that after everything, he was going to leave her here alone. Though that, an hour ago, would have been what she wanted, now, she couldn’t stand to see him go. She wanted to keep him this way, isolated with her in this bubble. It only took her a second though, to realize that he was moving closer, not away. She felt him drop down next to her, inelegant in a way that Malfoy never seemed to be.

When she opened her eyes, he wasn’t sitting across from her anymore. Malfoy now sat to her left, close enough that she could feel the ghost of his breath against her neck. Gooseflesh ran its way down her body, lighting up each nerve carefully with the sensation. It scared her to have him this close, this boy who had the capacity to break her more thoroughly than Ron or Viktor could.

If this were yesterday, this morning, or an hour ago, she might have been scared at his proximity, might have pushed him away, but there was a small, strange part of her that refused to believe that Malfoy was who everyone believed him to be.

He was silent for a long while, nothing but their breath and body heat to keep them company. 

“Always, Granger,” he finally breathed, though he sounded sad. His words seemed to wrap around her throat, choking her.

“But… just for tonight I’d–” He broke off, his voice fading into the alcove. 

He licked at his lips, the sound quiet in reality, though it seemed to amplify in Hermione’s eardrums. “I’d like to pretend.” The words were so soft–too soft to be coming out of the normally abrasive Malfoy’s mouth.

She could swear, her heart stuttered in her chest, her breath catching in her throat.

His light lashes fluttered, his eyes hooded, perhaps in an attempt to avoid eye contact with her. His left hand, which was pressed to the cool floor, had two fingers against the silk of her dress where it was sputtered out around her. He seemed to be studying it, stroking the fabric absently with one finger. 

In her softest voice, Hermione said, “what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Malfoy’s head snapped up to look at her, his cheeks tinted the slightest shade of pink against his porcelain hue. He retracted his hand from where it had lain on her dress, fisting it in his lap, as if he were trying to capture the feeling of the fabric against his skin.

Hermione’s heart felt heavy in her chest, even heavier than it had been when she’d first sunk into the alcove. She was disgusted at herself, at her lack of disgust for the boy sitting next to her. His hair, which had earlier been styled so carefully like the prat he was, was now hanging in his eyes, the fringe tickling her cheek. She fought off a shudder at the feeling. 

“It means that,” he whispered, so quietly that, if not for their proximity, she might not have caught his next words, “for tonight, Granger, I think you are extraordinary.”

The whole world seemed to take a pause then, even her breath, escaping into the heavy silence between them.

“Extraordinary?” Hermione echoed, her voice breathy.

“Yes,” Malfoy said, some of the malice slithering its way back into his voice, “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one, or do you need a thesaurus?”

“Are you sloshed?” she asked, her brows crinkling, though she knew full well that she couldn’t smell a drop of alcohol on him.

He snorted abruptly, “I wish,” he said. 

Then, “would it be easier if I was?”

Hermione let her eyes dance across the features of his face, the beautiful, untouched skin, from eyes as silver as jewelry, to lips the shade of a dusty rose on a spring morning. 

He was so close. She’d never been this close to him, save, perhaps, to punch him in the face. This was different though. The sensation filling her chest, tangling around her wasn’t filled with anger, or hatred. She was unsettled, a little confused, but most of all, intrigued. There was something else in those eyes, something that he had been hiding behind for the entire time she’d known him–perhaps even for his whole life. Now that she knew it was there, lurking somewhere beneath, she only wanted to coax it out of him, to study it in full.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly, closing her eyes as the ghost of his breath brushed against her cheek.

He breathed out a laugh, “I don’t know either.”

A pause. “But what I do know,” he said, meeting Hermione’s eyes, “is that you, Granger, were the most beautiful witch in the room tonight.”

Hermione could swear her head was spinning in the face of Malfoy’s mental whiplash. She flared her nostrils, balling her left hand hard enough to leave crescent-shaped dents in her palms. She looked back down at the floor, at his fingers–long, musician’s fingers–beautiful in the way the rest of him was.

“What about Pansy?” she asked, her voice feeble, but as strong as she could muster. 

Malfoy snorted, “fuck Pansy.” 

“Didn’t you?” Hermione retorted before she could stop herself. As soon as the words were out, she slapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide as she whipped her head up to meet quicksilver eyes.

An apology was on her lips, but before she could put voice to it, Malfoy burst out laughing. His shoulders shook as he laughed, lips twisting in genuine amusement. He smacked a hand against his lips, trying to contain the sound. Selfishly, Hermione wanted to hear it, to know its melody. 

“Pansy fucking wishes,” Malfoy said, recovering, “my father too. He’d love that. Perfect Pansy,” he mocked.

“Struck a nerve, did I?” Hermione asked, her voice soft, but still taunting.

He only shrugged, his mouth souring to one side, contemplating something.

“I don’t like Pansy, Granger,” he said, pausing. “The only girl I was ever interested in was you.”

Her body went stock-still as she tried to process his words. This boy, who had hated her on principle, hated her because of her blood, because of her parentage had just said he was  _ interested _ in her. Having a civil conversation with Malfoy was one thing, having him sit next to her, having him compliment her, close enough that she could feel his warmth, was another altogether. It was terrifying.

The implications of what he had just said, though, was even more terrifying. She didn’t know what to do, what to say. She was supposed to be disgusted, was supposed to get up and walk away. But the truth was, tonight, Malfoy had been kinder to her than Ron, than Viktor. He’d told her she was beautiful, told her she was  _ extraordinary _ . No one had ever complimented her that way before; it was enough to throw her.

“Me?” she asked, breathless.

“Yes, Granger,” he said, seemingly uninterested, “unless your title as ‘Brightest Witch of Our Age’ is another Gryffindor handout, I figured you could–”

Before Hermione could process what she was doing, she leaned over, through the small space between them and planted her lips against Malfoy. 

For a moment, she wasn’t sure if he would kiss her back. His mouth was so still against hers that she thought, maybe, that she had crossed some sort of line, had gone too far now, but just as she resolved to pull away, to get up and leave, she felt his lips react to hers.

She didn’t know what she was doing, but Malfoy seemed to have some idea, guiding her lips with his own, moving in tandem. His hand found her ribcage, warm even through the fabric of her dress, gripping it as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. Her hand found his cheek, his skin feeling just as beautiful as it looked. Her nails crested into his jawline, leaning further into him, into his strength.

He was gentle–gentler than she expected him to be, but there was enough power behind his kiss that, if it weren’t for the wall holding her up, she might have melted to the floor. His breath, the taste of him–a combination of spice and mint–brought a delightful dizziness to her head, only made her kiss him harder.  
She was kissing Draco Malfoy, she was aware, so bloody aware, but the implications were something she would worry about later. This felt _good_ , felt better than dancing with Viktor, than awkward moments and silences with Ron and she couldn’t feel bad about that, not when Malfoy’s hand found her hair, tangled in the curls. Not when she could feel her heart rushing in her ears, not when Malfoy’s lips pressed against hers so deliciously. 

Malfoy ran his tongue along her bottom lip and Hermione let out a small sigh against his mouth. She was painfully aware of all of the places they were touching, of all the places they weren’t. 

She had always expected him to be cold, but here he was, taking her apart with only his mouth, so undeniably  _ hot _ . His skin, his hands, his lips, his tongue; there wasn’t a frigid thing about him, save his personality. She wanted to bury herself in his heat, in this place–this bubble–where they were completely alone. It was a moment’s warmth in the ice of the darkening world and all she wanted, was to make it last longer, to hold onto it before it flew away forever.

Desperate for breath, she tore away from Malfoy, resting her head against his. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his lashes thick where they dusted his cheekbones. He looked irrevocably beautiful, words she’d never before allowed herself to associate with him despite thinking it. Hermione let her hand fall from his face, watching as he visibly swallowed.

“Why…” he trailed off, “why did you do that?”

“I’m not quite sure,” she replied, her voice quiet.

“Granger, I–”

“Don’t ruin it, Malfoy,” she said, pressing a chaste kiss against his lips, giving herself a moment to close her eyes, to capture the feeling of bliss rising in her chest.

He breathed out a sigh, the warmth brushing her neck. She fought off a shudder. 

“Say my name,” he said, “Just once.”

Hermione opened her eyes completely to study him. She might never be able to do so after tonight. His lips were beestung, the silver of his eyes hidden by those lashes, the color of cornsilk. 

“Draco,” she whispered, her mouth only inches from his own. 

His eyes shut tight for a moment before he opened them completely. His gaze settled on hers quickly, pupils blown wide. It was the most raw expression she’d ever seen on Malfoy in all the time she’d known him. She didn’t want to look away, didn’t even want to blink, for fear she’d miss something. 

Malfoy broke away from her slowly, reaching out his hand to pull an errant curl behind her ear. His finger strayed down from her ear, delicately skimming her cheek, her bottom lip before returning to his lap.

They sat in a strange companionable silence, neither one of them talking for a long while. She wasn’t sure how long it was before she felt Malfoy’s fingers against her own, tentative and slow. She waited, allowing him to entwine his fingers between her own, encasing them before she reciprocated, squeezing her fingers into the dents between his knuckles.

Strange as it was–strange as  _ all of this _ was–something about this, about her hand in Malfoy’s, about having him this close, about feeling his lips against her own; felt  _ right _ , felt natural. She could still feel the remnants of his taste on her tongue, on her mouth and she selfishly hoped it might not fade, though logically she knew it would.

It was getting late, and getting colder in the halls of Hogwarts, despite the perpetual warming charm over the castle. She knew that soon, the sun would rise, that this would all be over, only a memory to be reflected on and examined until it became unrecognizable.

_ ‘Just for tonight _ ,’ he’d said. 

She knew that it was probably selfish to wish for longer with him, especially with the turn the world was taking, but she couldn’t help but wish anyway. She was the rational one, always the sensible one, but for once, she  _ wanted _ . 

It seemed silly; this was  _ Malfoy _ , and she knew next to nothing about him, despite knowing him for four and a half years, but something inside of her ached at the thought of leaving here tonight.

Sometime later, Malfoy broke the silence, his hand flexing in hers as he did so. “I don’t want to go,” he said quietly, almost as if he had been reading her thoughts.

“But you have to, I assume,” Hermione replied solemnly, heart falling in her chest.

He nodded, pausing a moment, “I’m sorry.”

She wasn’t quite sure what he was sorry for. For leaving? For having said anything at all tonight? For the things he’d said and done over the past four years? She didn’t know, and yet, a part of her didn’t care, would rather ponder over it later as she lay in her dorm bed.

Hermione nodded back, her eyes trailing along the scape of his face, settling on his silver eyes at once.

“I should probably get back too,” she said, “the dance ended hours ago. I’m sure Ginny is expecting me.”

Malfoy said nothing, just looked at her with those piercing eyes.

“What do we do tomorrow?” Hermione asked, “Go back to the way things were? Pretend none of this ever happened?”

Her heart clenched in her chest as she awaited his answer. She desperately didn’t want to pretend, not when she couldn’t stop thinking about the way his kiss had been gentle, his touches careful and deliberate. 

She didn’t know how she could go back to seeing him as she did, as Harry and Ron did. She had glimpsed the truth of him tonight, and she wasn’t sure if she could ignore it, if she could look at him the same anymore. He wasn’t an enemy; he was just a boy, burdened by the expectations of his parents, of everyone around him. He had made many mistakes, done many cruel things, but there seemed to be more to him than petty insults. How could she pass him in the corridors and think of anything but the way he had looked at her when she said his name?

“What else is there to do, Granger?” he prompted.

She wished she had a better solution, one where they didn’t have to say goodbye, where they didn’t have to lie and hide, but despite her stubborn nature, she knew he was right. It wasn’t as if they  _ could _ do something about it. But still, she couldn’t help but feel as if she was losing something incredibly important by walking away.

Hermione stood up from her spot on the floor, her shoes clicking as they came into contact with the stone. Malfoy let go of her hand as she went, her hand cold at the loss of contact. She balled her fist at her side and watched as Malfoy leveraged himself off the ground.

“I suppose I’ll go,” Hermione said, attempting to swallow the lump building in her throat.

“Wait,” Malfoy said, grabbing her wrist, a gesture that, before tonight, she might have seen as menacing. If she was being honest, she was still having a hard time reconciling this new Malfoy with the one she knew.

Hermione stopped in her tracks, and not a second sooner did she feel a tug on her arm, and a pair of lips on hers. It struck her by such surprise that she had to grab onto his tie to keep from falling over in her heels. 

This kiss was both softer and more desperate than the one they had shared earlier. It was a goodbye, she knew, and something inside of her sunk against the thought. Hermione leant in closer, curling her other hand into the nape of his neck, into his hair.

If this was to be goodbye, she wanted to remember it, to capture the thrumming in her veins, the rapid beat of her heart. She felt as if, for the first time in a long time, she was truly  _ alive _ , as if all of the nerves in her body were firing at once, each sensation amplified so that the slightest touch felt like the greatest thrill. 

As abruptly as it started, with one last press against her mouth and another on her jaw, Malfoy pulled away, leaving Hermione gasping for breath. She let both of her hands drop to her sides, taking a step back to study the boy standing before her one last time. His eyes found hers immediately, silver and gold glowing in the low light. 

His chest was still heaving, his entire appearance disheveled. He ran a hand through blond hair, swallowing hard. Hermione licked her lips, the taste of him still lingering there. As much as she wanted to stay here for the rest of the night, she knew she needed to go, before someone noticed she was missing.

She blinked the bleariness from her eyes before she finally spoke, “Goodbye, Draco,” she whispered, his given name unfamiliar and warm on her tongue, “Merry Christmas.”

She inclined her head in his direction, a final sign of farewell before turning away from him. With each step she took she could feel the absence of something, something she didn’t know she had–or was missing–until now. She didn’t make it far, with only the sounds of her clicking heels as company, before she heard him.

“Merry Christmas, Hermione,” he replied, his voice a soft murmur.

For a second she stood still, waiting to hear if he would say something else, but no words followed. Hermione pressed a hand against her jaw, in the spot he had kissed, curling her fingers around it. She bit at her lip as she resigned herself to walking away.

She had to believe that it wouldn’t be the last time she heard his voice in such a way. She had to believe that they had more than just tonight, more than this isolated moment of bliss. She had to believe she had the time to ask him why, ask him how. She had to believe she would be able to know him,  _ really _ know him. It was the only way she could keep putting one foot in front of the other.

She privately hoped that no one was awake in the Tower when she got back. She didn’t want to have to explain herself. She didn’t want people to ask about Ron, about Viktor, not when she hadn’t thought about either of them in hours. She was still angry, upset, but at the moment it felt dwarfed by what had occurred in the alcove. She didn’t want anyone to taint it.

Only hours later, lying in her bed in Gryffindor Tower, did she realize that Malfoy had called her by her given name.

It was nothing.

It was everything.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the story and please, please don't hesitate to leave comments or Kudos; I love hearing feedback from my readers!
> 
> Feel free to follow me on tumblr for writing updates, etc at dilemma-ed!
> 
> If you enjoyed this story, go check out my other works, including five All For The Game one shots, a Thomas x Alastair one shot and my dramione war fic, To The Fallen!
> 
> If you want to see me write more Dramione (which I'm always open to!), then definitely leave me some prompts or suggestions for these two idiots!
> 
> I'm working on some other one shots right now that will hopefully be up soon and (finally) that new chapter of To The Fallen!
> 
> Until next time,  
> Em :)


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